


the prince in the tower

by partialconstellations



Series: the prince in the tower [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hand Jobs, No beta we die like illiterates, Past Sansa Stark/Jeyne Poole, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Robb Stark is King in the North, Throbb is more implied tbqh, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: It’s an old lookout tower, with only a round chamber at the very top. It’s where Robb holds the prisoner that he doesn’t want to admit is a prisoner.Theon is standing in the middle of the room, looking at her in disbelief. “Now he’s sendingyou?” Another wry laugh. “Doesn’t have the guts to come himself anymore?”“I volunteered,” Sansa replies primly.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: the prince in the tower [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659967
Comments: 11
Kudos: 128
Collections: Theonsa Challenge 2020





	the prince in the tower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [procellous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/gifts).



> This was written for the prompt “fairy tale” of the 2020 Theonsa Bingo Challenge (and then got a little out of hand and also veered a little to the left, but, uh, yeah.) and doubles as a little birthday present for Synne, who came up with the original background for this.
> 
> A little world-building that didn’t quite make it in but is sort of relevant (maybe): When Theon took Winterfell, most of the Ramsay stuff didn’t happen, the farmer’s boys never died b/c show Dagmer is a fake, and Ramsay never wormed his way into Theon’s confidence. (Also, Robb listened to his mother about maybe not trusting Roose Bolton.) Theon just lost Bran and Rickon when they escaped, weakening his Ironborn support. When Robb heard that Bran and Rickon were gone and Theon had betrayed him, he marched back North himself, leading to the RW not happening and him and Theon having to face each other when Robb took Winterfell back. Sansa’s storyline happened mostly the same, she was accused of killing Joffrey, was spirited away to the Vale, Littlefinger ransomed her to Robb, wibbly wobbly timey wimey handwavey stuff.

Before she even thinks better of it, Sansa knocks, two raps in quick succession against the dark wood of the door while she balances the tray on her hip. At least allow him that courtesy, she thinks. In reply, there’s the sudden bark of a wry laugh from the other side. Taking a breath, Sansa turns the key Robb has entrusted her with and opens the bolt sealing the door shut.

There’s no one up here but her, the guards are stationed at the foot of the stairs. It’s a miserable climb, the stairs winding up higher than most of Winterfell’s other towers, she can see why none that wouldn’t have to do so brave them. It’s an old lookout tower, one that was built to mirror the broken tower Bran had fallen from in another life, with only a round chamber at the very top. It’s where Robb holds the prisoner that he doesn’t want to admit is a prisoner.

Theon is standing in the middle of the room, looking at her in disbelief. “Now he’s sending _you_?” Another wry laugh. “Doesn’t have the guts to come himself anymore?”

“I volunteered,” Sansa replies primly, crossing the room with long strides, and sets the tray down on the small table.

Theon’s footsteps are almost silent. “Isn’t he scared I’m going to seduce you into letting you out?” he asks, his voice closer than she’s strictly comfortable with.

“I don’t think the thought even crossed his mind.” She’d grown up a lot in the years she spent in the South, but Robb still seems to think of her as a naïve, innocent girl instead of the young woman she’s become. It’s apparent in every one of his actions, trying to shield her from the details of the war, and even the things he allows to be spoken in her presence. He almost didn’t allow her presence at Littlefinger’s execution, but something about the glint in Sansa’s eyes seemed to have helped him change his mind. Sansa doubts that he quite realises she’s a woman grown now, and so, to his mind, she’s safe from wandering eyes and crude thoughts. That she hasn’t been safe from grown men’s attentions since the day she left Winterfell to be Prince Joffrey’s bride is not something she wants Robb to know, in truth. Better to let him keep his innocence.

And really, it’s unlikely Theon would see her as anything but Robb’s little sister, too. He has known her for most of her life, has seen her toddling about with her dolls, had let her talk him into playing princess and knights and villains with her, has seen her climb into Robb’s bed after a nightmare without even a thought that Theon might have been there for the very same reason she was. Back then, Theon had tucked her head under his chin while she settled in between the two of them, confident that the two older boys could protect her from anything coming to harm her.

There is no reason to believe that Theon sees her as anything but that little girl now. And yet, the thought of Theon seducing her to free him stirs something in her, deep beneath her breast, it touches something in her that she doesn’t think has ever been stirred. Not by thought alone, and certainly not to the thought of _Theon Greyjoy_. Maybe once, long ago, when her and Jeyne had practiced kissing with each other. It was for their husbands, of course, and she had tried to forget about the queer sensation between her legs when she’d grown older. It was safer that way.

Feeling herself blush, she turns her back to Theon, pretending to straighten out his cutlery. The cook has instructions to cut his meat into bite-sized pieces, so it is only a fork and a blunt knife. Theon’s own knife has been taken away long ago, of course.

“Isn’t that why I don’t have any guards? He’s afraid that I’d just talk them into letting me out?” His words become louder as he comes closer. “Robb has too much confidence in my abilities of seduction, if that’s the case.”

The blush still burning on her cheek, she turns around to find him standing awfully close to her. To think that she now stands taller than both the boys who had once seemed so big and strong. And now, one of those boys is a prisoner of war, and the other a king, overwhelmed by responsibility and duty, and something that happened in this very tower, something that he refuses to speak about, least of all to her.

“Eat your supper, Theon.” Suppressing the sudden urge to step closer and run her fingers over his arm, she adds, “I’m supposed to bring the tray back down.”

Finally sitting down, Theon picks up the fork and starts twirling it between his fingers. They both watch the movement for a moment, until Theon looks up at her. “So you have to stay here until I’m done eating?” he asks with a smirk, an approximation of the ones she hated so much once they got older and Theon turned from a scared little boy to a cocky adolescent, crude and crass. “What if I simply don’t eat? You will just have to stay here then.” It’s a small show of defiance, an impulse she knows too well.

Sitting down in the other chair, she replies, “Then you will go without,” but it comes out without venom, almost gentle. A gentleness that she isn’t quite sure about.

Theon picks up the dull knife with his left hand and starts pushing his food around on the plate. “You’re not going to let me starve,” he says confidently, but he does finally take a bite. Chewing open-mouthed, surely to annoy her, he continues, “I’m too important a prisoner. Maybe not as valuable as I was in the grand scheme of things before my father decided to invade the North, but I’m still the only lead you have on your brothers.”

“You weren’t a prisoner back then,” she protests quickly, but her words lack conviction.

Theon snorts, angrily stabbing at a piece of potato. “Whether you want to admit it or not, princess, I’ve been your family’s prisoner long before this tower; the bolts and the keys and the chains.”

Princess. Sansa hasn’t gotten used to her new title yet, and coming from Theon, it sounds more like an insult than the worst depravities she’s heard.

She raises her chin in defiance. “You were raised and educated alongside us. Father took you with him when he visited his bannermen. He taught you to rule. You were Robb’s _friend_.”

That wry laugh again. “And always with the threat of the sword on my neck. The sword your father used to make me carry whenever he executed someone, to remind me of my place. Yes, him and King Robert wanted to raise a nice little puppet to rule the Islands in their name.” He swallows, picks up another piece of meat, chews, swallows again. “The flaw in their plan being that the Ironborn never would have respected me, of course.” Theon shakes his head, the corners of his mouth still turned up in a bitter smile. “Of course, they’d never respect me now either. I’ve lost Winterfell and let myself be taken prisoner by a greenlander instead of dying and going to the Drowned God’s halls like a true warrior.”

“Would they have respected you if you’d been able to hold Winterfell?”

“No,” he admits. “What use do they have for Winterfell? We’re sailors. Seafarers. Reapers. You can’t even smell the sea from here. Do you know I forgot what it smelled like? What it tasted like? The air by the sea, it tastes like salt.” He stares sullenly at the meagre meal in front of him. “Unlike this. Why don’t you people know how to season your food?”

Ignoring the weak stab at the North’s lack of fine dining, Sansa replies, “King’s Landing’s air didn’t taste like salt.”

“That’s because King’s Landing stinks of shit,” Theon says with the confidence of someone who hasn’t ever stepped foot in the capital. He’s not wrong, though, so she stays quiet and continues watching him eat his meal. He takes another couple of bites, emptying the plate before he neatly sets aside his cutlery and looks up at her. Have his eyes always been like that, like a storm has been brewing inside of them?

“Sansa, _you_ know what it was better than anyone. Tell me, do you remember your time in King’s Landing, with the Lannisters, fondly? Would you call yourself their ward? Would you want to hear everyone telling you how you should be _grateful_? We were both hostages and prisoners, and it was never our fault.” He gestures towards the two long chains, bolted to the walls, curled in on a neat pile on the floor. He would have had almost free reign of the room chained up with them, but Robb seems to have been unable to bring himself to lock Theon up with them again after whatever had occurred between them that had led to Robb’s refusal to see him again. “At least this is clear.”

Unable to think of a reply, anything to weaken the blow, Sansa stands. Grateful that he has finished his meal and she doesn’t have reason to stay any longer, she turns to leave, grabbing for the key in her pocket. As she runs her fingers along the cold metal, she realises that Theon could have stepped past her anytime, overpowered her, and she wouldn’t have stood a chance to stop him. Whether he would have managed to get past the guards downstairs, unarmed as he is, is another matter, but he hasn’t even tried. Only talked to her. That must count for something, right? Smiling a sad smile, she picks up his tray and turns towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Theon.”

There is a shuffle as he stands while she’s again fumbling with the key to let herself out. “Please. I’m bored,” he says to her back.

Stopping in her tracks, she turns. “ _Bored_?” she repeats, incredulous. Of all the things he could have said.

A shrug. “There isn’t really that much to see outside. You’ve seen one snowy hill; you’ve seen them all. There aren’t any guards up here that I could talk to—or at—and I’m afraid my hand is going to cramp soon.” He makes a crude motion at her, but it’s not accompanied by the lewd smirk she would expect. He just looks defeated, maybe a little sad.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a small nod and then she’s out of the door, closing it behind her swiftly. She doesn’t think he’ll come after her, he’d looked too resigned to his fate to think of escape.

* * *

Robb’s reply to Sansa asking him if she can bring something for Theon to do with his hands, is a firm “no” to anything sharp, even just a needle to fix the split seam on his doublet, so she spends a longer time than she’d admit to anyone—especially herself—in front of the bookcase in her chambers to select a book for him. Her personal library probably isn’t something Theon would be caught dead with any other time, but she guesses it’ll be better than anything she could get from the library. If she brought him a dry history tome, he probably _would_ fling himself from the tower.

This time, he’s looking out the window, with his back to the door, as she enters. “Hello, Theon,” she greets after she’s set down the tray. “I brought you something.”

His eyes light up once he spies the book sitting next to his spoon and his bowl of stew. It’s a collection of Southron tales, tales that would excite girls dreaming of valiant knights, where the heroes were good and true and kind and always won. She’d decided against a collection of Northern myths, the kind that Bran enjoyed, mostly because it had seemed like a sore subject after their conversation the day before. He doesn’t tease her like she’d feared for the subject matter or the well-loved cover, he just looks at her with a grateful look and an honest smile as he thanks her and eats his stew without protest.

Theon finishes the book in a day, so she brings him another on the day after. And another after that. There’s only so many little girls’ stories a grown man can read, she reasons with herself as she selects the next book. She brought this one with her from the Vale, bought with hot ears from an Essosi trader solely based on the cover, because it had reminded her of the books she’d sometimes stolen from her mother’s shelves and then read with Jeyne, both giggling.

Theon looks disappointed as he looks down at the tray and only finds a plate of boiled vegetables with bits of meat on it, but he doesn’t say anything and only hands her back the latest finished book. For fear of Theon teasing her, she only hands over the new book after she’s collected his tray and bid him goodnight. She hurries down the stairs and tells herself that it’s because surely, he must laugh at her, laugh at Robb’s little sister and her fancies.

Sansa doesn’t bring a new book the next day, even though he’s probably finished reading this one, if he has read it at all. Maybe he’d taken one look at what’s inside and decided that this, finally, is below him.

“The last one was an interesting choice,” he says instead of greeting her, before she has even fully opened the door. Closing it behind her, she finds Theon standing too close, so close, in fact, that her heart picks up its pace. Maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can convince herself that it is because she fears that he might finally decide to overpower her, that this has all been a ruse to lull her into a sense of security. Except she doesn’t try at all, not once she finds herself being almost eye-level with him and, tilting her head down, notices the heat in his eyes as he looks up at her, from an inappropriately close distance. “Tell me, princess, why that one?” Theon has never called her by any titles, except to mock and tease. And yet, it doesn’t sound like when he’s called her princess or lady or—worst of all—little lady, all those other times. No, not at all. His voice is low, and husky, and a little dangerous, and she feels it resonate deep inside her core.

“I thought you might want to read something that wasn’t intended for little girls,” she replies, proud that she manages to keep her voice level, looking at him evenly.

“Oh, believe me, I _thoroughly_ enjoyed it,” he assures her, taking another step towards her. He is now, without doubt, inside her space, their faces so close that she could count his lashes if she cared to. “I just never would have imagined that _you_ would. Naughty girl.”

The points where his fingertips make contact with the fabric covering her arms light up to send shivers down her spine and she wonders what his hands would feel like on her skin without the fabric separating them.

“Tell me,” he says again, voice dropping even lower, “has anyone ever touched you like the man from the book?”

Images of men that shouldn’t have touched her at all flash up inside her mind. To get rid of them, she closes her eyes, but it doesn’t quite work. Her heart speeding up into an uncomfortable rhythm, she answers, truthfully, “yes.” She can’t quite help the high keening note that escapes her lips afterwards.

“Yes?” he repeats, that low tone suddenly gone from his voice. Instead, he sounds just as anxious as she feels, and he lifts his hands, breaking the little points of contact immediately. “Sansa? Who touched you?”

“It’s fine,” she says, _because it is_ , she is in Winterfell, she is _home_ , Robb is going to protect her from all of those men, she has seen Littlefinger’s head roll with her own two eyes, and Theon is not going to hurt her.

The look on Theon’s face as she opens her eyes again says it’s anything but fine and he shakes his head. “Gods, I’ve been sitting here for hours, thinking about you reading this, thinking about _you_. Thinking about whether you’ve wanted to send me a message and now I’ve ruined it all. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You couldn’t know.” _Please touch me again_ , she wants to tell him, and _it felt so good when you did._

“If Robb ever decides on what to do with me, and if I am alive to do so after, I will hunt down whoever touched you and kill him. With my bare hands, if I have to.”

The viciousness in his words matches the storm of his eyes, and the shivers from his mere touch earlier run further down her spine and right to that point between her legs. Better to change the subject entirely. There is nothing to be done now, anyway, and she’s safer now than she’s ever been. “What message did you think I wanted to send you _through a book_?”

Theon snorts. “Think about it. You’ve given me book after book of stories of maidens and princesses and their princes and knights, who fall in love, the knight goes on a quest to earn her love, they get married, the end. And then you turn around and give me a book about a _pirate_ , who _steals_ a _princess_ to take as his wife and then they do nothing for the rest of the book except have a bunch of sex? Am I supposed to _not_ read into that?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Her cheeks burning up again, she says, eloquently, “Oh.”

“I admit you’re the opposite of a Summer Islands princess, but I could definitely make the pirate work.” Theon cocks his hips, before he walks away from her, moving in an exaggerated swagger. “See?”

As she looks after him she can’t help but notice the way his hips move, in that overexaggerated fashion, the way his breeches cling to his hips. Licking her lips, Sansa adds, “And I _am_ a princess.” Even if that is something of a new development, and she hasn’t quite felt like one, even with Robb a perfect king.

“A winter princess.” Theon smiles; a true, genuine smile, that then turns into something more dangerous, more feral. “And I could make you feel just as good as the pirate does the summer princess.”

She yearns to reach out and then she realises that she can, they’re here alone, nobody is going to come and disturb them. “Then do.” And then she does reach out, circling his wrists with her hands, feeling like she’s been set on fire from the inside.

Theon is on her before she can even think to question her words, her decision. His lips are rough and chapped against hers but his kiss is soft and gentle, and he moans against her mouth as she closes her hands, still around his wrists, on instinct. Whenever she imagined kissing her sweet prince, she’s imagined strong arms circling around her and holding her, her on her tiptoes to kiss him, and the taste of a sweet, forbidden fruit. Kissing Theon is none of those things. In the past years, she’s grown past him, so he’s the one to tilt his neck up, most of the definition in his strong archer’s arms is gone and he tastes a little stale.

And yet, when she opens her mouth to let him in, it’s perfect. His kiss isn’t like Jeyne’s—sweet and hesitant, interrupted by giggles—he knows what he’s doing, that much is clear as day. But it also isn’t like Littlefinger’s—demanding and unasked for, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and her shaking like a leaf—no, this is exactly what she wants and, perhaps, needs. And she’s still holding his wrists, and he hasn’t made a move to shake her off, so maybe that is what’s giving her the confidence to slip her tongue into his mouth, that he hasn’t even tried to take control of this _thing_ between them.

Without breaking contact, Theon steps closer towards her. His breath on her ear is hot when he whispers, “Do you like that?” and then he presses a small kiss just below, a kiss that sets her insides aflame once more. “Princess.” Sansa loosens her grip on his wrists, nothing seems more important than to get her hands in his hair, run her fingers through it, muss it up. One of his arms circles around her and presses flat against the small of her back, and the other’s thumb presses against the point where just a moment before, he’s kissed her. He’s so impossibly close, layers of clothes separating them and yet, she can feel his cock harden against her thigh and that she has this effect on him, too, sends another thrill up her spine.

“Did you like that?” he repeats, thumb stroking against the skin just below her ear, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Yes,” she intends to say, but it comes out as a high whine that makes Theon chuckle. “Let’s see if you like the next bit then.” And then his hand breaks contact and dips down to join his other hand, the one now travelling up her spine, and she whines again at the loss of his touch against her skin, her own fingers tightening in his hair.

“Impatient, aren’t we, princess?” She whines again and, impertinent as he is, Theon chuckles again. “I don’t want to ruin your handiwork, alright.” And then he blindly begins to undo the row of buttons at the back of her dress, swiftly, like he has done this before. (And, of course, he has, but she tries not to think of all his experience and her lack thereof.)

Once the last button finally pops open, at the small of her back, Theon’s hand finds its way under it, his fingers feeling even hotter through just the fabric of her shift. “Finally,” he growls against her neck. “Lowborn girls have much easier dresses, you know.”

“Well, you just imagine the work of getting into it,” she replies, a little testily. She _likes_ this dress.

“Considering I’m the one who will have to do all those buttons back up, I don’t think _you_ should complain either,” he shoots back before he pulls it off her, leaving her in nothing but her stockings and her shift and her smallclothes below that. Sansa fights the urge to cover herself up, knowing that Theon will see much of her shortly, and finding, excitedly, that she _wants_ him to.

When her dress falls to the floor, the key inside clatters and, with a jolt, Sansa realises that she _hasn’t locked the door_. Her eyes, panicked, meet his, deep and unknowable like the ocean. “No one comes here, princess,” he assures her, his fingers tightening on her hip, “no one comes, but you.”

Theon’s words on her first evening up in this tower – “ _Isn’t he scared I’m going to seduce you into letting you out_?” – echo in her mind, suddenly afraid again that this was all part of his plan, that he’s going to let go of her, pick up the key and run, leaving her half-naked and shivering and feeling stupid.

Like he’s read her mind, he pulls her flush to himself instead, one hand hiking her shift up, the other on the small of her back, the tips of his fingers dipping just below her smallclothes, finally touching her bare skin. If she felt like she was on fire before, it was nothing compared to how she feels now.

“I want,” she starts, nonsensically, her own hands roaming over his body, only now noticing that he’s still wearing too many layers. “I want—”

“Yes?” he rumbles against her neck, and then he _licks_ a thick, broad stripe that makes her knees buckle against the skin of her neck. “What do you want?”

“I want—” she begins again and then she decides that now is not the time to be coy, “fuck me.”

Theon chuckles. “That’s not a sentence, princess.” His breath tickles against her collarbone as he starts licking and kissing his way down from her neck. “Try again.” A firm lick against her collarbone makes her knees buckle again, but his hand is still there, against her back, still just that little bit below her smallclothes, and it feels like the only thing that’s holding her upright, since her knees are clearly not up to the task.

“I want you to fuck me, Theon Greyjoy,” she says, almost primly, but her cheeks and ears burn when she says the words.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he growls and then, “good girl.” His voice is suddenly much lower, and she doesn’t think it’s an affect, his cheeks have turned a much darker shade, almost as red as her own feel. At least she’s not the only one affected by this.

She almost falls over the chains that are still curled on the floor, manacles open, as Theon walks her backwards to the bed and she thanks the gods that Theon isn’t locked up with them anymore. The chains would have been one barrier too much. Like this, she can pretend they are just a man and a woman, consumed with lust, instead of what they are; her the princess of the castle and him, technically, a prisoner.

Not that that matters much when he’s now above her, still fully clothed, pulling off her stockings and smallclothes in one swift motion, leaving her in nothing but her shift, and that leaves her feeling so much more exposed than she would have felt if he had taken that off, too.

“But gods, you make a beautifully debauched picture, princess,” he says, and strong arms bracket her face as he shifts onto his elbows and leans in closer. That, at least, finally gives her the opportunity to reach for his doublet and the undershirt with it, and pull them both off of him, to at least even the odds a little bit. He gets caught a little, leaving his hair to stick in every direction.

“I think you should take those breeches off, too,” she says, emboldened by the sight of the expanse of his chest, all hers for the taking, if she just reaches out.

“Oh, should I?” he asks, and instead of doing so, he moves down her body, to where she’s naked, if he just pulls up her shift. His fingers move over the fabric, down, down, down, and then they’re on her thighs and he’s on his knees straddling her legs, and he’s moving his fingers up again, this time pushing up her shift, exposing more and more of her skin, and he must surely see how excited she is.

“Look at you, princess,” he says, looking up from that spot where her legs meet, that spot that only her husband should see. His tongue darts out to wet his lip and he looks into her eyes as he continues, “look at how wet you are, and I haven’t even touched you.”

Sansa would beg to differ, there had been plenty of touching, but she knows what kind of touching he means, and _oh_ , there he his, his fingers touching the lips between her legs and he’s still _looking_ at her. That look somehow is too much, too intimate, and she turns her head, to look at anything but him, but then his hand catches her face and turns her back to look at him. “No, Sansa.” Has her name ever sounded so sweet? “You’re not a common whore, and this isn’t some drunken fumbling. I’m going to make you come and you’re going to _look at me_ while I do so.”

“Gods, _Theon_ ,” she moans at both his words and his hand, flat against her mound, applying pressure against that small pearl with his palm as two fingers enter her, ever so slowly. She’s so slick that they glide right in.

“Sansa,” he moans as he leans in again, his breath hot against her cheek, “how are you so godsdamned wet?”

“I—” What is even the correct reply? It’s not like she could help it. “I’m sorry?”

“Fuck, no,” he says, not even trying to swallow the curse down. “You’re amazing, princess.” And then he moves his wrist, and another finger slips in, and the pressure against her mound intensifies, and he keeps rubbing against her, as his fingers move inside of her and she feels flush all over and then, suddenly, he moves his wrist again, changes the angle of his fingers, and _oh_. _That_ must be what that summer princess felt.

“Do that again,” she demands, chasing after the sensation with bucking hips, too caught up in the moment to feel wanton or guilty, or any of the other things that she’s supposed to feel at fucking someone who isn’t her husband.

“My, my, Sansa,” Theon says, and his face is so close to hers that he surely must feel the heat she feels inside. “Who knew?” And then he does exactly what is asked of him, sinking his fingers deep inside of her and he crooks them and that, combined with the pressure of his palm, it’s just too much.

Theon’s face blurs and she sees stars, her centre is hot and wet and she bucks against him, his hand, and when she is in control of her actions again, she wraps her arm around the back of Theon’s neck and pulls him close, to kiss him, unashamedly, unabashedly, on the mouth, and he almost doesn’t have enough time to open his lips for her when she pushes her tongue past and inside his mouth. He’s so close, and his skin against hers feels so good that it feels natural when she pulls back, for just a moment, to breathe, and to then come back for more.

“I want. I want you inside of me.” With her face burning, she spreads her legs and Theon chuckles, stroking firm circles against her skin. Her shift is bunched somewhere above her breasts, around her neck, and maybe that’s what should remind her of who she is, who he is, that this is not proper, but she feels so good, and she doesn’t care.

“Up then,” he replies, and sits up on his legs, offering her a hand.

“Up?” she repeats. “Am I not supposed to lie on my back?”

Theon laughs at her, openly, and now she is surely burning up in shame. “ _Now_ you worry about what you’re _supposed_ to do?” She must turn an even darker shade of red, because Theon hurries to speak, “I’m not making fun of you, I promise. If you ride me, it’ll feel better for you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh,” she says, dumbly, and takes his offered hand, letting him help her up and he steals a quick kiss as they switch positions, him lying down into the pillows and her climbing on top of him. Her shift falls down to cover her nakedness. It seems a little silly to take it off now, but it seems even sillier to continue wearing it, when he’s already touched her everywhere, been inside of her with his fingers, and will be inside of her with his cock soon, so she pulls it off and Theon takes in a sharp breath as he finally sees her completely naked. “You’re breath-taking,” he adds, quietly, almost like he doesn’t want her to hear.

“Now, if you want to do the honours,” he says, then, and gestures towards the laces of his breeches, like it’s a present for her to unwrap. Perhaps it is, of a kind. The outline of his cock is straining against them and she takes care to avoid touching it as she undoes his laces with fingers that suddenly feel too clumsy.

His hands come to cover hers, squeezing them in an oddly comforting gesture. “Despite what I’ve always claimed back when we were growing up, it’s not that big. But I know what to do with it. Just trust me, alright?”

“Alright,” Sansa nods, and then she starts pulling his breeches off, exposing him like he’s exposed her earlier. She quietly eyes his cock, springing up once freed, reminding her of a toy purchased from a Braavosi trader that Bran had been given on his nameday. A laugh escapes her. She quickly suppresses it, covering her mouth with her hand and looks at Theon, hoping he’s not going to be angry with her.

“No, you’re right, cocks are quite ridiculous,” he assures her with a grin, reaching for her hand with his own, squeezing her fingers again. “Now, you’re so wet that you can probably ride me right now, if you wanted to. But we don’t need to rush. If you want, I can help you along a little.” He wiggles the fingers of his other hand at her.

“I— I’d like to try. I want you to feel good, too,” she says, and she moves above him, bringing herself closer to his cock.

Theon’s hands come up on her hips, with a firm grip. “Don’t feel pressured. Making you feel good, seeing you come apart like you just have, is good enough.”

“I want to,” she reassures him, and, closing her eyes, she sinks down on his cock, taking him inside of her. There is no hint of that sharp pain she’s been warned of, that she has been assured is the cost of her wifely duties and for a second she worries that she’s done it wrong, but then Theon moves, just a wiggle, really, and no, he’s definitely inside of her and, oh, it feels _good_. A moan escapes her lips, and a matching one leaves Theon’s when she moves experimentally.

“That’s it,” he encourages her. “see what feels good.”

She does, moving her hips every which way, and then Theon starts moving, just a little, thrusting up inside of her, with his hands resting on her hips and her own curling against his chest, leaving little red circles against his skin. Canting her hips, she meets Theon’s thrust with one of her own and he groans, loudly. “Fuck, yes, _Sansa_.”

At the same time, a “gods, _yes_ ,” leaves her mouth and to her own surprise, her voice is almost high enough to reach a squeak. That seems to do _something_ to Theon because he bucks up against her, this one not seeming entirely intended, his head thrown back into the pillows, and he moans, deep in his throat. She cants her hips again, rotates against his cock inside of her. One of Theon’s hands leaves her hip and grips one of hers, against his chest.

She wants to kiss him but leaning down changes the angle and Theon’s hips buck again, bringing them closer, and then he groans again. “Sansa, wait.” He stops, inhales, before he speaks again. “I’m about to come.” Theon’s hand tightens on her hip and the one that’s covering her own pulls her hand off his chest, seemingly to put as much space as possible between them.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asks, moving again.

He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes and breathing in again, and then shakes his head. “Do you really want to explain a bastard—a bastard that looks like me—to Robb? To your _mother_? _”_

She hates that he’s right, she wants to feel him spill inside of her, know that she’s made him feel good enough to do so. “I’ll get some moon tea,” she reassures him, rotating her hips, but he bites his lips and releases a slow breath.

He seems to have made up his mind. “Sansa, no.” And now both his hands are on her hips and he pushes her off of his cock, and there’s a small trickle of fluid as they separate.

“Can I—” Suddenly she feels too conscious of herself again, doubting herself, like the spell is broken. “Can I finish you, like you did for me?”

“Oh, yes, princess, you can.” He looks at her with hooded eyes, the storm back inside of them, and then he wraps his own hand around her fingers and closes them around his cock, slick with her own wetness. “Apply a little pressure and then just move your hand.” He brings his head closer to hers and steals a kiss, with his forehead leaning against hers.

They stay like that, when she tries moving her hand like instructed, up and down his cock, squeezing just a little, and then she moves it again, eliciting a moan from Theon’s lips. “Yes, just like that. Good girl.” She lifts her eyes from his hand on hers, her hand on his cock and back up into his eyes, pupils blown wide, and she moves the hand again, curious to watch his eyes as she takes him in hand. Without further warning, he spills over her hand, not breaking their eye contact.

“Fucking gods, princess,” he says, between desperate breaths. “Sansa, you can’t just _do_ that to a man.”

“It seems that I just did,” she replies smugly, as she feels his cock soften in her hand. She’s a little upset when he breaks their eye contact, but then realises he’s looking for something to wipe her sticky hand on.

“I really liked that, you know,” she says, feeling almost coy again, while he hands her a rag from gods know where.

“I really liked that, too,” he says, lying back down in his pillows before he reaches his hand out for her. “Stay here with me, just for a while.”

“You _do_ still need to eat your food,” she agrees as she joins him in the furs, both naked and still a little sticky. But, covering Theon’s chest with kisses, while he tucks her head under his chin, she doesn’t find she minds.

* * *

“You know,” he says later, while he does up the buttons on the back of her dress, “I’m a prince, too. A pirate prince.”

It takes all of her power to not turn around and smack him or, more likely, just devour him again.

As she finally makes to leave, picking up the key from where it fell to the floor, Theon, again sprawled on his bed, legs splayed shamelessly, his cock lying spent and soft against his leg, calls after her. He’s smirking, but she doesn’t hate it now. “I look forward to tomorrow’s reading.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this on my phone on a train, with an old lady trying to peek at my screen.


End file.
